by T. Westwood.
Originally published in Douglas Jerrold's Shilling Magazine (Punch) vol.4 #22 (1846).
I had a vision in the years gone by—
A vision of a vast sepulchral hall,
Reared on gigantic columns, black and grim,
And lit with torches of undying flame.
Around the walls stood pedestals, whereon
Were statues numberless, the marble shapes
Of warriors, dauntless chieftains, stalwart knights,
That in the stormy battle days of old
Had won their right to that proud eminence,
And stood there crown'd. Majestic shapes, in sooth,
Strong-limbed, stern-visaged, and with life-like eyes,
That seem'd for ever glaring at gaunt Death
With a fierce mockery;—all mighty men,
Men of renown were they, foremost in fight,
Whose names were blazon'd in the scrolls of fame,
For the world's worship. In their hands they held
Great swords, or keen-edged axes, and each foot
Was planted firmly on its granite base
With an immutable will, as who should say,
"We take our stand here till the eternal years
Bring us renewal of our glorious prime!"
Above them hung old banners, that had waved
On many a stricken field, and with brief pause,
A trumpet blast reverberate, awoke
The hollow echoes of the vaulted aisles,
With its victorious clangour;—whereupon
Those banners rustled, waving to and fro
As in the rush of battle, and a strange
And ghostly murmur seemed to thrill around,
As if the marble lips of those dead men
Were striving to give utterance anew
To their old war-cries, And whenever thus
The trumpet sounded, then methought I saw
The spaces of the hall on a sudden filled
With a dense multitude, all kneeling low,
All pouring forth the tide of their hearts' love
And reverential homage at the feet
Of those crowned knights of war.
Musing, I gazed,
Compassed with saddest phantasies of thought,
Till slowly waned the vision from my sight,
Chased by the dawn, and to my waking ear,
With the first matin-song of happy birds,
Came rumours of great battles, won afar,
Harvests of slaughter, garner'd in by Death,
And honours, by a world's acclaim beatow'd
On our victorious generals.
Time rolled on
And once again, in dream, I seem'd to stand
Within the portals of that hall of Fame.
Lo! change was busy there—change—ay the grand
Calm fixëdness that reigned supreme before
Had vanished wholly; in its place was seen,
Working its pitiless ravage, fell Decay.
Still burnt the torches, though with failing fires—
Still on their pedestals were ranged the shapes,
The effigies of those stern men of old.
But all the jewels in their crowns were dim,
And from the drooping brows of some the crowns
Themselves had fallen; phantom-like they looked,
An unsubstantial, ghastly, wan array,
Impalpable, unreal—their glowing eyes
Grown meaningless and void, their stately bulk
Shrunken and shadowy—all their grandeur gone,
All their proud bearing—scarce their meagre hands
Could clutch the deadly symbols of their sway,
Their rusted swords and axes—tottering,
As if o'ermaster'd by a fate sublime,
They stood in act to fall;—and when the trump
Broke the drear silence, not as erst it did,
In notes of exultation loud and long,
But with a feeble melancholy moan,
It woke no recognition, and so died
Into a silence drearier than before.
Wide open stood the portals, but in vain—
No throng of worshippers sought entrance there,
No knees were bent, no vows were paid: pale Death,
And Desolation, and Decay alone
Stalk'd like avengers through the lone dim aisles.
So pass'd the hours, till one by one the flames
Of the wasted torches flicker'd and went out,
And pitchy darkness hover'd over all
Then suddenly, a mighty thunder peal
Shook the huge fabric—the tall columns rocked,
The solid basements trembled, and in the midst,
What time the trumpet breathed its final blast,
A wail of lamentation and despair,—
Most like the cry of a lost spirit's woe,—
Down, headlong from their granite pedestals
Fell those false idols, while amid the din,
Methought I heard a solemn voice proclaim,
The voice as of an angel, clear and strong,—
"These shedders of men's blood, for evermore
Their glory hath departed:—God hath said,
Even God: the Lord Omnipotent, hath said,
There shall be no more war!"
Oh blessëd dream!
I look through the long vista of the years—
I see the forms of the meek men of peace,
The men with thoughtful eyes, and broad calm brows,
That in their patient lowliness of heart
Have been up-lifted to the seats of power,
And from that eminence have scatter'd down
New light and wider blessings on mankind.
I see them wear the crowns of the world's love,
Its earnest homage, its enduring faith—
Wear them, not darkly in sepulchral halls,
But in the open sunshine, ‘neath the smile
Of the sweet heaven. I look abroad and scan
The rich plains of the populous earth, its vales,
Its mighty cities; o'er the seas I look,
Lit up with white sails of the merchant ships,
And in the length and breadth of the fair world,
I see no lingering token of the reign
Of the destroyer, War. But to my ear
Instead, the burden of a solemn hymn
Steals, floating upward from the souls of men,
Upward and onward still, from star to star,
Through all the spaces of the Universe,
"There shall be no more war!"—Oh! blessed dream!